


A Grey, Sticky, Crappy Sunday

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-23
Updated: 1999-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	A Grey, Sticky, Crappy Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

A Grey, Sticky, Crappy Sunday

 

This is a short, **PG** (for topic) story I wrote last year after  
the events of the labour day weekend. FYI, This takes place Sunday, Sept.  
1/97. The Consulate is the new one, they are still setting up in it.  
Its the middle of the afternoon. Comments welcome.  
 **  
**

## A Grey, Sticky, Crappy Sunday

  
By Gladys  
  
Its a grey, sticky, crappy Sunday and one of the Canadians ends up at  
the newest location of the Consulate because she don't know where else  
to be.  
  
It is like the sticky, hot damp weather - no matter where you are that  
day it is still going to feel bad. Its still going to hurt. And, like  
the weather, its not something that you have any connection with or control  
over but it follows and haunts you all the same. This is the second last  
day of a long weekend; a Tuesday is coming but she wishes it would get  
here and stop making the extra hours ache as much.  
  
She walks into the building and sees her Deputy Liaison Officer hanging  
from the overhead light. "What are you doing here?" Thatcher  
doesn't mean to sound as sharp as she does. It just comes out that way  
sometimes, mostly with him, usually with others. Right now, it is just  
force of habit, the hardest kind to break  
  
Fraser is on the top rung of a ladder, with one arm reaching for a hanging  
light bulb and the other arm groping desperately for anything to steady  
himself. It is Thatcher's voice belting out that tips him over the edge,  
literally and leaves him hanging from one of the overhead pipes.  
  
"Oh dear," he worries, still remaining the unruffled gentleman,  
even twelve feet from the floor.  
  
"Let go, Fraser," Thatcher orders.  
  
"Yes, Ma'am." Fraser obeys and lands on his back. The fall  
is broken by a pile of toilette paper rolls.  
  
"Get up, Fraser," Thatcher orders again, and extends her hand  
to him.  
  
He takes the help and gets himself to his feet. "Thank you, Ma'am."  
  
Then, at the same time, they look at each other oddly and ask at the  
same time: "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Nothing," they then reply in unison.  
  
"Fraser, stop talking when I do. Why are you here on a Sunday? We  
have contractors' to repair our lighting fixtures."  
  
"I just thought I'd have a go at it. Usually, the storage room is  
the first place that is in the most demand."  
  
And he didn't know where else he should be.  
  
"Well, fine. Just don't kill yourself. The force isn't covered for  
that kind of insurance."  
  
"Yes, Ma'am. If I may ask, I thought you were going to the brunch  
at the Italian Embassy."  
  
"I didn't feel like it. Too many people." Too many other people  
feeling as crappy as she did. It didn't matter where you were today,  
she had decided. If it was going to hurt, she might as well be productive  
about it.  
  
I know what you mean, he doesn't say even though he wants to. He wonders  
if he is supposed to excuse himself and leave her to her office, but  
he doesn't because it is his Consulate too and he doesn't want to leave  
yet. He wonders if she is thinking the same thing.  
  
The kettle from the other room whistles bloody murder and wakes them  
both from the uncomfortable silence. "I'm making myself a cup of  
tea," Fraser explains. "Would you like some?"  
  
***  
  
The chairs haven't been delivered yet so they both sit on the carpet  
in the main lobby. The curtains are up, a few of the paintings. They  
sit across from each other, cross legged, like campers waiting for the  
fog to clear before they can continue home.  
  
"I take it you've had access to a television or radio," she  
breaks the silence that ends when she can't stir her tea anymore. "I  
mean, you still don't own a TV, do you."  
  
"No ma'am, but yes, I did hear the news on the way home from a baseball  
game on Ray's car radio. Did you hear about it on the television?"  
  
"Yes. Just that there had been an accident; that she was hurt and  
he had died. I suppose I thought that was that until I turned my radio  
on. It must have been four o'clock in the morning. I landed on one of  
those call-in show and I heard the man misread the topic when he said,  
'Our topic: Reaction to the death of Lady Diana" and I thought,  
'You silly ass, if you're going to do these sick call in shows, at least  
get the casualty facts right - it was him, not her.' But then I knew  
she had died. I went to the television and she had died."  
  
"I can't believe it. Anyone else in the news or International circles  
I could fathom, but not this. Not her."  
  
"I know," Thatcher says. "I met her once, you know."  
  
"Did you? When?"  
  
"At a reception in Ottawa four or five years ago. We only spoke  
for a few moments. She wanted to know what it was like being a woman  
in the force. We talked a little. She was very nice. I think she managed  
to speak to just about everyone there that night. People who were more  
nervous than she was and she would just put them at ease.  
  
"You? Nervous?" Fraser leans over to put his cup down on the  
carpet but his eyes never leave her.  
  
"Yes. Even me. Don't let it throw you. I'm past being nervous, if  
you haven't already noticed." There's a suggestion of a smile now  
and he knows she isn't offended. "Did you ever meet her?" she  
asks.  
  
"Once when I was a Cadet and being inspected in Yellowknife with  
my troop. She stopped in front of me, looked down at my feet and asked  
my how on earth I kept my boots so shinny. I think she may have been  
a little nervous her self. Not as much as I was. Then she looked at me,  
and I looked at her. She was smiling. I told her I didn't know. To be  
honest, I don't remember what else I said. I blathered something about  
using polish from the carcass of an -"  
  
"Never mind, I think I've heard the stories." And this time  
Thatcher is the one smiling at him. But the light in her eyes quickly  
drowns in a haze of tears that threatens to pour, but won't. She looks  
away and reaches for her tea, anything to get caught like this.  
  
"I know how you feel," he tells her. And he does know, he just  
isn't allowed to show it.  
  
"Those poor boys," she is saying to herself. And that is what  
is ripping at her the worst, at this second. Those poor boys. Two children  
she's never met nor ever would, in all likelihood, but right now they  
are the two people she fears for the most.  
  
"They'll be fine," Fraser assures them both. "She left  
them with enough strength. They'll be fine. They have a father who will  
come through for them."  
  
"I know, I know. Its not fair, though. So much that happens isn't  
fair and we know it and we get on with it but once in a while something  
public, tragic just happens and reminds us of what we can't control in  
our own lives, let alone what isn't controllable in other people's lives."  
  
"It's sad," Fraser says and these are the simple words Thatcher  
has been looking for.  
  
Sad, just plain sad and it hurts like hell.  
  
THE END  
        ******************  
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